See You In Perdition, My Friend
by KToon
Summary: Sam always thought he would go down beside his brother nobly, blaze and glory style. Less of a blaze, more of an ocean. And alone. He was going to die alone.


**Oh hey. Hi. Someone's here. Actually reading. That's a new one.**

 **Reviews are appreciated!**

 **Disclaimer: I own nothing aside from the plot—I'm just an onlooker to Kripke's sandbox, staring longingly at all the shiny toys in it.**

 **Rating is for violence + coarse language. C'mon. They're hunters. They cuss.**

 **This is a request from TotallyChic, for the prompt, "A Sam POV where he gets hurt on a solo hunt, and Dean is far away. Not a death-fic, please."**

 **Well, hon, I hope this is alright for you. I tried my best!**

 _ **TREMENDOUS THANK-YOU TO IAMKATHASTROPHE AND JENN FOR THE BETAS!**_

"No man ever steps in the same river twice, for it's not the same river and not the same man."

 _Heraclitus_

* * *

 _The river was cold. No, not cold; numbing. The icy water shocked him—how could a river like this be so freezing? But at this point, he guessed, it didn't actually matter anymore. Maybe this was how it was supposed to go down. Of course he had just happened to trip. One of the main rules their father taught him: watch your six. Don't let your guard down, and always be aware of your surroundings. A simple practice that had been drilled into his head since he was seven years old, a practice that could very well save his life, and he had forgotten it._

 _Well, he couldn't say he'd forgotten it, he'd just been preoccupied with everything else that was going on. And now he was paying the unfortunately deadly price. He could barely make out the white, puffy clouds above him through the raging rapids, and he felt like he could reach them with his hands. If only he could..._

* * *

"So get this," Sam began, glancing down to his laptop that rested on the wooden table in the center of the room. He sat behind it, the bright screen displaying numerous websites and various news clippings of the local papers. So far, the past two weeks had consisted of simply sitting in the bunker, doing nothing but trying to find helpless leads on Amara who had been lost amongst the wind.

His brother sat across from him, he himself looking into some lore and ancient books that they had recently discovered in the hundreds of archives that were meticulously placed throughout the bunker. They had uncovered most of the prehistoric documents within the first year that they had arrived at their new home, but every now and then some random, forgotten volume of information would reveal itself, and they would have to dig through the already-catalogued files.

"—You got a lead on Amara?" Dean interrupted eagerly.

Sam exhaled. "Sorry to rain on your parade, Dean, but no," he said, truly apologetic. He knew that Dean was beginning to become scratchy and desperate to get something, _anything_ , on Amara and go hunt her down, but what exactly were they supposed to do when they did actually get a lead? She was literally God, except the polar opposite. Sam sincerely doubted they could do much by themselves, let alone take her down. With the amount of power she held, or he assumed she held, it was almost like they would be battling against God Himself.

Sometimes, Sam wondered if anything they did _actually_ made a difference. Of course, they saved lives and helped people, but nevertheless it was just apocalypse after apocalypse after apocalypse. Everything they had fought for was being undone; for instance, he had let Lucifer out of his cage, and now the Devil was back out. Did they actually, _truly_ , make change in the world? He may never know.

Dean groaned.

"But," Sam continued, "I do have two promising cases pending. One, actually, right in Topeka. The other's in Kearney, Nebraska." He knew that his brother's answer was most likely going to be to turn the hunts down, so Sam carried on before Dean could protest. "Listen. We're not getting anywhere with Amara. And what are we supposed to do when we do actually find her? Take her down? Because, Dean, she can non metaphorically kill us with a snap of her fingers."

The hunter huffed, but didn't interrupt. Alas, he waved his fingers in a 'continue on' motion.

Sam cleared his throat before resuming. "Uh, well, the one in Topeka looks to be a shapeshifter." He chuckled, reflecting on the previous encounters they've had with the species. "Man walks into bar, unsuspecting citizen gets nearly beaten to death, and said man is found twenty minutes later under an overpass nearly fifteen miles away with his throat slit. There's no time to travel fifteen miles that fast."

Dean processed the information. "So, shifter takes that man's shape, kills the man, dumps the body, then goes to the bar for a shot of whiskey?" he summarized sarcastically.

"Pretty much."

"Okay, you're right, it sounds like a shifter. But what's the motive? He didn't kill the civilian, did he? Are there any other victims?"

Reading back over his brief notes, Sam replied, "I have no idea what the motive is—I haven't had time to research any connections since this just caught my eye this morning. And according to the hospital, the guy suffered from repeated trauma to the head and multiple lacerations to the chest and neck. He's expected to pull through, though. And yeah, there were four others. All different scenarios, but this was the most recent one."

"Sounds good. What's the other case?"

"Honestly, it looks like a demon. Or, in this case, multiple. A few things that sound like possessions around the main town of Kearney. One girl reports waking up in the morning, only to be arrested a few hours later on two accounts of voluntary manslaughter. Doesn't remember a thing. Same with three others, all men and women of the age 34."

Dean seemed to calculate the two cases, before he finally said, "Dibs on demons."

"Why?" Sam asked, sincerely puzzled.

"Because I called dibs."

"But—"

"No buts, Sam. I called dibs. Therefore, I get the demons."

" _Dean_ ," Sam said sharply. Dean fell silent.

"You and I both know why you want the demons," the younger of the two deadpanned. "The more dangerous, the better. Right?"

"Sam…" Dean trailed off, warning him to back off while he could. Sam scoffed in disbelief. However, he knew nothing could change his brother's mind once he had made a decision. That didn't mean he wasn't going to argue, though.

"Is this about Amara?" Sam asked. "I let her out, so now we've got another armageddon on our hands because of me? _Again?_ Dean, we both know I didn't have a choice. You would've died. And if you were in my position, you would've done the exact same thing."

Dean hesitated, which was never a good sign. "As you once said yourself, Sam, no. I wouldn't. Not if it meant the end of the world."

The words hit Sam like a bullet to the gut. If Dean could see the hurt in Sam's eyes, he didn't show it. There was nothing in that mask of a face that Sam could read. There was a time that, even when his brother had mastered the skill, Sam could still decipher what Dean was feeling beyond the layer he put on top. But now...now there was nothing. Just a blank face, showing no emotion—no remorse for what he had just said.

"I'm going to go pack," Sam stated after a few moments of silence had ensued, surprised at the own stableness of his voice since inside he was on the verge of crumbling. Is this what Dean had felt like when he had told him that about Gadreel? Probably. Except, these were completely different circumstances. Dean had tricked him into being possessed by something unwillingly, in which it began taking control of his mind and his body, doing whatever the hell it wanted with it. The ways in which it violated him was beyond Dean's comprehension. And the reason, the true reason, he had said that was because he wouldn't have wished that upon Dean whatsoever. Never.

Dean didn't respond. Sam left, and when he returned to the main room fully packed he found his brother also at the ready. He began making his way up the stairs, and when he reached the bunker door he shifted his pack and moved to open it. Something stopped him though, and he turned around to look at Dean from the balcony.

"Be safe."

There was no answer from the older Winchester, and Sam walked out.

He would never see the look of sadness and guilt that would crash over his elder brother just moments after the door clanged shut. He would never know that Dean hadn't really meant what he had said. He would never know that Dean had only said it so that he could get the demons, and Sam could get the easier monster which subsequently made him more safe.

He would never know his brother _would_ do the same thing for him.

* * *

 _They were so close, those clouds. He tried to lift his arm, but it was fruitless in attempting so. The current was only dragging him deeper into the water...and deeper...and even deeper. Was it possible this was just how it was meant to be? Sam had stopped believing in God and his angels a long time ago when he actually did meet the soldiers of Heaven. That's all they were—soldiers. The armies of God despised him for his impurity, and that brought a whole new amount of unwanted memories to him. The demon blood, releasing Lucifer, losing his soul, not searching for Dean in Purgatory, setting free the Darkness. Gosh, he'd messed up so bad._

 _Maybe he did deserve what was happening to him now._

* * *

"Ms. Roslyn?" Sam asked, walking up to the lonely woman sitting in a chair on her porch steps, staring seemingly into nothingness. Making his way up the white, wooden stairs, he adjusted his cheap FBI suit and took out his faux badge.

The twenty year old glanced up from the position she was in and observed every detail of the identification. Once satisfied, she nodded and he put it away.

"I've already talked to the police," she informed him, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. "They said that I wouldn't have to go through anymore questioning. That I was _done._ " The way she enunciated the final word made it very clear to Sam that she did not want to talk.

He set his jaw, and tried again. "I understand, Ms. Roslyn, but we do need to follow up with the information. You talked to the police, but I am not them."

She hesitated for a brief moment before giving in, but not before she heaved a sigh of annoyance and glared at him. "What do you want to know?"

Sam, startled with the fact she was actually going to speak, cleared his throat. "Well, the reports say that your boyfriend Ryan was found deceased near an alleyway off of I-70. However, twenty minutes prior to the estimated time of death, he was caught on video surveillance in a bar more than fifteen miles away, beating another citizen to the point of hospitalization. He then fled quickly, driving the opposite way as to where he was found a little over a half an hour later.

"Law enforcement pursued the vehicle for a solid ten minutes until he made an abrupt right turn, tossing the squad cars off his trail. There was no sign of him until a homeless man stumbled across the body, who then called 9-1-1. Am I doing alright so far, ma'am?"

Roslyn merely nodded her head, turning to look anywhere but Sam's face. The young hunter caught sight of her tears, though, and he felt a pang of sadness for the poor girl. She was just barely in college, majoring in meteorology and on her way to earning a Bachelor's degree. She had told police that she was sure Ryan was going to ask for her hand in marriage before he had been killed.

Even though he tried not to think about her, the memories of Jessica came tumbling back. He fingered the ring that was in his pocket for a brief moment. It was the ring that she had never worn. The ring that would never be worn. The ring that, despite everything Sam had endured, had never been lost to his rural lifestyle. Even when he had settled with Amelia, he had refused to lose the band. She understood, and Sam was grateful.

Of course, he had never told Dean. He figured his brother would simply make a sly comment or shrug it off, mumbling something about not having things to remind him of his past life; the life he would never have again. Part of him knew Dean wasn't that low, but everything had just been extremely crazy. From Azazel to the demon blood, all the way to the multiple apocalypses (not excluding the one happening right now), there just hadn't been time.

It was one thing after another, never letting up in the slightest. There was rarely any down time in which they could actually have the chance to be normal brothers, nonetheless time for him to share his feelings about something that had happened over a decade ago.

Suddenly, the sound of Roslyn speaking brought him back to reality. "You know, Ryan wasn't like that. I went to go see the man who he had…um…" she paused, trying to regather her thoughts. "W-Who he had almost killed, but I don't believe he would—could—do something like that. I just...I don't understand."

The girl was on the edge of hysterics, so Sam decided to wrap the conversation up quickly. "Now, just a few more questions, Miss, and then I'll be on my way." She looked into his eyes, almost pleading to be left alone, but didn't protest.

"Now, did you notice anything strange about your boyfriend before the incident?"

She shook her head firmly. "No, nothing. We had gone out for dinner the night before, and he was fine."

Sam nodded, his suspicions of the monster being a shapeshifter solidifying. Still, he continued just in case. "Flashing lights, weird smells, any of that been happening around lately?"

He didn't get a response, only a look saying, 'are you crazy?'

"Right," he muttered through clenched teeth. "Look, thank you for your time, Ms. Roslyn. That's all I needed. You have helped more than you can imagine."

Sam turned to walk away, when Roslyn spoke. "Just, find the real person who did this, okay? Because I know that it was not Ryan."

Sam looked back and cast her a reassuring glance. "I will. I promise."

Roslyn smiled. "Thank you."

"You're welcome," he said, returning the favor.

When Sam got back into the old '03 Chevrolet Cavalier he had stolen from a local diner in Lebanon, he took out his phone and stared at it for a long while. The majority of him wanted to contact his brother just to make sure he was doing all right with the demons, but he decided against it. Anyways, Dean was most likely doing the same thing he was. Interviewing the victims, then finding out where they could be holed up.

Or, on the other hand, he could already be on the hunt and in the line of fire. Sam decided to wait a day or so, just in case. He himself had been found in a tight situation multiple times before in which the dreadful sound of a ringtone blew his cover. It wasn't often it would happen—most of the time he had his phone on silent—however sometimes things would just slip his mind.

If Dean were to be in a tough situation, he knew better than to call. Then again, they were rarely away from each other on hunts so they hadn't really talked about it.

Finally, he decided on a brief text.

 _Hey, you okay?_

It was short and simple, but Sam didn't necessarily want to get into a full blown discussion with his brother right now, either. He clicked 'send' and tucked the device back into his pocket. He was halfway to the nearest motel when he got the notification of a response.

 _ **Yeah. Just finished talking to vics. You?**_

Sam grinned to himself, noting the similarities in their hunting style. After all, Dean had learned from their father and Sam had learned from Dean. It was only suitable they would be like each other when when on a case, even by themselves.

 _I'm fine. Just finished with victim's families, too. Stay safe,_ he messaged back.

 _ **You too, little brother.**_

Sure, Sam was slightly pissed with Dean for taking the demons, but that didn't mean he should take all of his anger out on him. All he was doing was protecting Sam, and Sam understood that. But he was no longer a child—he had never been one in the first place. Dad's number one rule of hunting: never go into a fight pissed about something other than the monster at hand.

So, as much as he wanted to talk some sense into Dean, he wanted to ensure his older brother's safety even more.

By the time he had reached the closest and cheapest motel he could find, evening was beginning to settle. The sky was tinged with various hues of orange, red, and yellow, stars just starting to reveal themselves and scatter the open plain of the sky in tiny, white fragments of light.

He got out of the car, not forgetting to grab his laptop and duffle bag. After he checked in, he took a shower in the rusted bathroom and changed out of his suit into some comfier clothes. Once all that was done, he took his laptop out of its satchel, set it up on the tiny table that was provided, and begun checking for a map of all the local sewer systems.

He had managed to talk to all five of the victim's families, and all five of them had said the same thing. Their loved one was not acting strange in the slightest, but yet had all been caught on video surveillance committing some form of violence. For instance, another one of the people affected had taken a knife to somebody's shoulder, while another vic' had put a bullet in somebody's chest.

Sam couldn't figure out why the shapeshifter was choosing those people, though. They were all between the ages of twenty to thirty—different races, religions, and genders—and were from various regions of the country. It made no sense—there was no connection. Either the shifter was doing this out of pure fun, or he just had missed something. Sam voted on the latter.

He rubbed a hand over his face, groaning in frustration. But, once looking over the sewer systems, he could tell he had made an actual strike. Each place in which an incident occurred was all connected by the same one. He could only guess the shifter was located in the middle of that somewhere.

He gathered his things and made his way to the motel lobby again, hoping he could borrow the clerk's printer for the time being. Sam locked the door behind him, making sure to keep his gun tucked away and hidden in the back of his denim jeans.

It was now night, the sun long disappeared amongst the horizon. Sam was a little under halfway across the deserted parking lot, when he got an all-too-familiar feeling. The feeling of being uneasy, alert. He attempted to persuade himself that it was the vigilance of a hunter kicking in, as though stalking its prey, but he knew that it was helpless thinking so.

The gnawing feeling to get the hell out of Dodge in the back of his mind was overwhelming; the impulse to run away and seek shelter intensifying with every passing second. Even when he did turn around though, hand subconsciously traveling to his handgun, nothing revealed itself. Sam knew better than to ignore a feeling like that, however. Countless years of training had prepared him for situations like right now.

He was being watched.

Again, he surveyed his surroundings, checking the nearby oaks and the shadows of the beige motel walls. There was nobody there.

Sam scoffed. His fingers never strayed from his gun, but he continued to the place he was going.

The lobby was a tiny, humid room in which a single kid sat behind the wooden check-in desk. It was the same clerk who had checked him in about two hours ago. He looked to be in his mid-twenties, the glasses resting on his eyes making it appear as though he were a young professor rather than a desk attendant at some random, no-name motel.

Despite his scrawny and lanky form, something screamed bad news to Sam. Man, he had just picked the most safe place to sleep, hadn't he?

Keeping a watchful eye on the kid, he followed through with his plan.

The kid, who's name tag read Tyler, looked up from the phone he was previously engrossed in. He eyed Sam up and down, appearing bored.

"What can I help you with?" he said, annoyance clear as day in his words.

"Mind if I hijack your computer and printer for a quick second?" Sam replied without preamble. He really just wanted to get what he needed and go back to his room as fast as possible.

"Uh," the kid hesitated, "sure, I guess."

Sam smiled at him in thanks and turned the desktop monitor around. He quickly typed in the same address he had been looking at previously on his own laptop, printing the map seconds later. He grabbed the paper once it was fully done, then placed a five dollar bill on the desk. "Thank you," he said, leaving.

Once he was back outside, the same feeling he had before was now gone. Something was definitely not right. Pocketing the paper and pulling out his room key, Sam begun to unlock the door.

That's when he knew— _he knew_ —there was somebody behind him. He turned, swinging with a sharp right-hook. His attacker ducked, moving to the right slightly and kicking at the back of Sam's legs. It hit its mark, and his legs crumpled unwillingly. Now on his knees, Sam reached in the back of his pants for the gun loaded with silver rounds. He grasped the handle, flicked the safety off, and raised it to try and take aim. The person—thing?—assaulting him grabbed the barrel before he could fire at it, though, and the shot deflected into open air. He tried again, but for a second he couldn't figure out where the bullet had went.

That's when both the pain and realization struck. The attacker had turned Sam's gun around onto himself. His hands involuntarily traveled to his abdomen, staining them red, letting him know that was undoubtedly where the bullet had hit. He almost chuckled at the irony of being shot by his own firearm, but decided against the idea in fear it would aggravate the wound. At the moment, he couldn't tell if anything vital had been hit, but he guessed he would know sooner or later if he died. _The things you think when you're on the verge of death,_ Sam thought to himself.

He wasn't quite sure when he had fallen, but the next thing he knew he was sitting on the cement ground, leaning his weight against the motel room's door to try and ease some of the pain. He managed to look up, but instantly regretted doing so.

The first thing he spotted was the motel clerk towering above him, gun in hand. The next thing he witnessed was a man, most likely another guest, come out of his room not more than a few doors down from Sam's to investigate the sound of the gunshot. The third thing he saw was the clerk raise the gun even with the man's startled face, and pull the trigger.

Sam heard a loud "No!" pierce the air around him, and it took him a few seconds to realize that it was himself who had screamed. But the man was already dead, lifeless before his body had even hit the ground. The clerk looked back at him, a sadistic glint in his eyes, before they flashed a shade of silver. At that moment, had he not been bleeding out on a motel sidewalk, he probably would have laughed at his own stupidity. He had known something was wrong from the get-go, but like any dumbass in a horror movie he had tried to brush it off. Oh, Dean was going to give him hell for that.

 _Dean._

The sudden reminder of his brother brought a whole new wave of hurt to Sam. Would he make it out of this alive? Would he ever see Dean again? Would—

His frantic thoughts were cut short by the shapeshifter speaking. "Hiya, Sammy," it said enthusiastically. No matter how much Sam wanted to toss a snide comment back it's way, he deemed the effort too great against his quickly fading strength. He was beginning to struggle with keeping his eyes open, but he knew that if he closed them he may never open them again.

But, as if on cue, the shifter switched it's hold on Sam's gun and stalked up to the young hunter who lay helpless on the floor. The butt of the pistol was now facing upwards, and Sam knew what was coming before it had even happened. The shifter brought the metal down on Sam's head, and a whole new fury of pain exploded in his skull.

Then Sam Winchester knew no more.

* * *

 _The next memory that was stirred up in all the commotion reversed that thinking in an instant. Dean. How was he going to feel when his little brother was dead? Part of him wanted to believe what his sibling had said previously was completely true, and that he really wouldn't sacrifice himself for Sam. Hell, maybe it was true. He may never know. But on the other hand, if this part of himself was right then Dean may not be far behind him. And not by a supernatural cause either._

 _He couldn't stand that thought. He wouldn't stand that thought. And so he fought. He fought hard, kicking his legs and ignoring the blinding pain in his chest from the lack of oxygen. He needed to get to his brother. Dean needed to know that he was alright, and he wasn't going anywhere. There was no way he would leave his brother behind, even if Dean didn't feel the same way towards him._

 _And that's when he broke the surface._

* * *

Sam really wished that the drum solo in his head would stop, or at least play at a softer tune that wouldn't threaten to split his head wide open. Why was he here? He couldn't comprehend why his head was hurting so much; it's not like he got headaches like this very often. It sort of felt as though he had had a vision, yet Sam knew that was impossible since those stopped nearly ten years ago. But, with the way his head was throbbing, it was a good possibility that one could have taken him down. He moved a hand to try and massage away the ache in his temple when he realized that it was proving impossible.

His hands were not tied. No, Sam would at least be able to feel _that_.

That's when it all came flooding back in a heap of tangled memories, invading his mind with the information that he so badly needed right now. The motel, the shifter, being shot with his own weapon. Yeah, Dean would be pleased. In his dreams.

He knew the risks of being shot in the stomach—being raised by a marine had its advantages. If the bullet had ripped through the stomach, it will begin to leak bile into the peritoneal cavity. If the wound isn't sutured quick, his lungs could collapse due to the air entering into said cavity. Basically, if he couldn't get something to stop the bleeding, and fast, he was going to die a very painful death. Sometimes, in the past, people would shoot someone in the stomach on purpose in order to cause a horrific death. The shifter was smart, intelligent. It knew its stuff.

Sam just really hoped that something, anything, would come quick because he wasn't a huge fan of going into hypovolemic shock. It would explain why he couldn't move. Most likely, he had already lost a good twenty-five percent of his blood meaning he was already at a Class 2 hemorrhage. Twice that and he would die. And that's talking as if the bullet hadn't struck any major organs or arteries.

His arms lay useless at his sides as he took in his surroundings. His back was propped up against a large, metal pillar that held up the ceiling to the shelter he was in. With the way his day was going so far, he wouldn't be surprised if he was smack in the middle of the sewer system he had been so carefully studying.

He tried to reach to the back corner depths of his mind to imagine the map he had printed out just an hour or two ago. However, a cloud of haze was making it nearly impossible. He looked down at his injury.

Something was not right, Sam noticed.

He wasn't supposed to be here. He wasn't supposed to be bleeding out like this in a musty, run-down sewer system.

He groaned in agony, managing to place both of his hands on the gunshot wound that bled freely on a quick burst of adrenaline that accompanied the pain. Sam assumed that the door to the room he was in was unlocked, courtesy of his captor. A meant-to-be taunt, because despite the fact he wanted to, Sam couldn't go anywhere.

His legs were numb, the ability to move his toes long since gone. Any chance of escape had long ceased, a distant wish that Sam no longer held onto. He was lost, a stormy sea of hopelessness encasing his mind in a blank ether. Part of him simply wished that the _thing_ that had brought him here would just decide he was useless and toss him to the wolves, declaring he was no longer of import to said thing.

Somehow, though, he knew that wasn't going to happen. He was going to lay here like this, and bleed out for god-knows how long. And that terrified him.

Sam had always known that his life-span was going to be cut short from when he was fifteen. He and his brother had never exchanged a single word about it, but the two of them had known deep down that they were going to die young. They just wished for the same thing—to have it be quick and simple.

Sam chuckled at his own ironic thought process. Yeah, so much for dying quickly. It would be at least a few hours before he would go into shock, then it would start progressing into spouts of losing consciousness. And finally, when he would no longer be able to keep his eyes open, he would succumb to the inevitable darkness called the Empty. The reaper had said that's where he would go, and he believed her.

He had died a total of six times already, hadn't he? Part of him agreed with her that he didn't deserve anymore second chances.

He was tired.

Tired of hunting, tired of everything. Dean was saved from the Mark of Cain. He didn't need Sam anymore, right? Amara was in the wind, and everything was actually semi-normal for once. Sam thought back to twenty-four hours ago, the events playing 'round and 'round like a cassette tape stuck on loop.

Just then, the door opened, and Sam forced himself to look up. The figure of Dean entered, and Sam snarled.

"Woah, Sammy. No need to get all snarky," he laughed. "I just want you to know this. That door is unlocked. So, anytime you want to leave, you're free to. Oh. Wait. You can't."

"You think...this is funny?" Sam choked out, a cough racking his parched throat.

"I think this is absolutely hilarious."

"Ha. Very humorous."

"Now now, Sam. If you're trying to get me to snap at you, it's not going to happen. You're not getting out of this that fast."

Sam slumped his head against the metal pole he was propped up against and sighed in defeat.

"Don't worry Sammy, your time will come."

"Only Dean gets to call me that," Sam managed.

"I am Dean."

"No. You're not."

"I am now."

Sam released a maniacal laugh. His vision was tilting, black patches etching across his peripheral view. Shock was beginning to set in earlier than he had expected.

The imposter Dean stood up from his crouched position in front of Sam, and began walking towards the door. His eyes flashed a shade of silver, and he winked. "Or who knows. Maybe you're right."

With that, he left, and Sam lost his internal fight with consciousness.

* * *

 _He felt the sun; the heat that warmed his face while the water beneath him froze the rest of his fragile body. He saw the blinding light of the blue sky mix with the white foam of the river that longed to envelop him whole. He tasted the oxygen on his tongue as it moved down his throat, filling his lungs with the much needed air. The pain of breathing due to his wound was long past recollection as he focused solely on gulping in deep mouthfuls._

 _And just like that, it was gone. He was back under the surface. This time, no matter how much he willed to fight, he physically couldn't. He was exhausted, completely spent. And so he let the harsh riptide toss him about the water. He couldn't seem to decide which way was up, down, left, or right, but now he was sure it didn't matter. He was going to die here, without making it up to Dean. After all he'd been through, Sam at least had wished he would die nobly beside his brother in battle—blaze and glory._

 _Less of a blaze, more of a ocean. And alone. He was going to die alone._

* * *

He awoke the second time with a gasp.

Icy water splashed over his seated position on the floor, drenching him from head to toe. It washed into his flayed skin, resulting in a burning sting, and he bit back scream. He would be damned to hell again before he would give his captor the satisfaction of hearing him in pain.

His captor...Dean. _No, not Dean,_ his conscious reminded him, _the shifter_.

It was standing over his hunched body, a bloodthirsty glint in its piercing green eyes. Dean's eyes.

"I t-thought shifters had to see someone to gain their form?" Sam stuttered through the cold. He was shivering, the ice water having the intended effect.

"Oh, please," the shifter taunted. "You guys are all over the media, pictures splattered across every news website."

That was a new one for Sam. He always thought a shapeshifter had to connect with its victims physically in order to maintain their form. He never would have even taken into consideration that they could look at a picture of somebody and shift; the lore on lycanthropy, therianthropy, and shape shifting had never mentioned much about it at all.

Well, obviously he had missed something since here, in front of him, was a very alive looking shifter in the form of his brother who was more than eight hours away.

Suddenly, Not-Dean reached into his pocket. Sam tensed, his senses becoming abruptly alert despite the foggy haze that was clouding his vision.

"Relax," it said softly, "I'm not going to kill you...yet."

Sam wasn't convinced.

The shifter sighed in what seemed like pity, before it took out Sam's cell phone. He almost gasped in astonishment at the tiny device, angry at himself for not noticing it was gone from his back pocket sooner. However, it was nearly impossible for him to think straight with the confusion racking his brain, so he decided not to really blame himself for it. He wasn't stupid. He knew it was just the symptoms of losing so much blood. Now that he thought about it, though, it seemed to have slowed—maybe it was finally clotting.

The shifter took a few moments to scroll through what seemed his contacts, ensuring it had Sam's attention when he clicked dial on one of the names. Sam knew who it was before the recipient had even picked up, which was saying a lot since it was a mere two seconds before that happened.

" _Sam? Where the hell are you? I've been calling you for the past three hours! You better—"_

Dean stopped talking.

" _Sam?"_ he said after a few seconds, noting the silence that took place. Sam knew Dean understood something was seriously wrong. It was something that they could always deter, even when they were kids.

The shifter winked, before it talked alas. "Hey Dean!" it said, a false cheer tinting his words.

" _What the…?"_ Dean wondered, hearing his own voice echoing back. Then, the realization dawned on him. " _Shifter,"_ he hissed.

"Ding, ding, ding," Not-Dean exclaimed, "he's got it!"

Sam changed his position on the floor when his faux brother kneeled next to him, speaker facing away from itself. Sam glared, but kept his mouth shut.

" _You son of a bitch, I swear if you've hurt him, I'll—"_ Dean began, but didn't get to finish his threat before the shifter cut him off.

"You'll what, Dean? From where I stand, you're not in any position to be demanding orders. Now, quiet down, or I'll slit his throat before you can utter a single word. Which, I _will_ do, because I will and can hunt you down myself with or without your little brother as leverage."

There was a moment of static over the line before Dean finally spoke. " _At least let me know he's still alive."_

"As you wish," Not-Dean answered, then held the phone towards Sam. "Speak."

Sam didn't speak.

He didn't know if he could, even. His throat was parched the point in which it hurt to swallow, and he didn't want to abuse his lungs more than they already were. The possibility of his lungs collapsing was becoming more and more of an issue the longer Sam's gunshot was untreated, and using even the slightest breath to talk was a risk. A risk Sam wouldn't take.

That plan went out the window, though, when the shifter pulled out the switchblade Sam had been given by Dean for his 13th birthday. "I said talk," it whispered menacingly.

Sam tried, he really did, but it came out as more of a wheeze.

Not-Dean heaved a sigh of irritation and dragged the blade down Sam's forearm.

He screamed, which then turned into a coughing fit that racked his whole body.

" _Okay, okay!"_ Dean yelled over the line. " _Stop!"_

The shifter stopped.

" _What do you want me to do?"_ Dean defeatedly resigned.

"Meet me by the river off of the interstate running straight through Topeka. You're a hunter. You're smart. I'm sure you'll find it. I expect you to be there in three hours."

" _Three hours!"_ Dean said, surprised. " _I'm still six away!"_

Not-Dean pushed the blade down for a second time, and Sam, too tired to yell, released a pitiful moan. He just wished Dean would stop talking—his eyes were getting heavier by the second, keeping them open becoming too great of a task. His limbs felt heavier than lead, and his head throbbed in time with his pulse that was too fast to be normal.

Sneering, the shifter responded, "Not my problem. Figure it out."

And with that, it hung up the phone. Black made its way across Sam's vision, and he let his head drop to his chest. Not-Dean hummed a tune to a song Sam couldn't recognize on the spot as it got up from its crouched position, smile printed on its features. Sam was slowly losing his fight with consciousness as the seconds ticked by, seemingly slower than if it were to be an entire hour, and he feared that if he fell asleep this time he surely wouldn't awaken again.

As if it had read the young hunter's mind, the shifter said, "Don't worry, I'm not going to let you die." It took a ragged looking cloth from its back pocket, and before Sam could even wonder _why_ it had one of those in its pants, the shapeshifter shoved it into his abdomen right on top of the wound. Sam grunted against the harsh pressure, but did nothing more. Then, Not-Dean took a second wrap and twined it around the two long frays that lined Sam's inner arm, tying it in a knot that was hoped to stim the blood-flow.

His makeshift bandages wouldn't do much good, Sam knew, but it was at least something. He was beginning to feel dizzy, lightheaded, and he closed his eyes for a brief second. The shifter let him, but still held a gazeful eye.

Before Sam knew it, sleep had overcome him, and he was being hauled up to his feet—only able to notice it in the back of his subconscious. It's not like he could support himself, however. The shifter did all of the work. And soon, he was tucked into an enclosed area that Sam instantly recognized as a trunk. That's when he truly, utterly passed out.

* * *

 _This was it, he determined, and let his body fall lax. The water tossed him around like a ragdoll, and he felt himself slamming into rocks that for sure was making new and bright cuts. Minutes passed, and the last of his oxygen was almost gone. Then, he slammed into another huge boulder, stomach first. He screamed in agony, soon realizing his costly mistake as the water filled his mouth and lungs._

 _Choking, fireworks flashed before his eyes, and he grew lightheaded. He knew he was at the end of his rope, and was only reaping what he had sown._

 _Goodbye, Dean._

* * *

Sam cried out as white-hot, fiery pain made itself very well known when he was forcefully pulled upright. He glanced to his left, hazel eyes meeting forest green ones. First, he felt immense comfort. Dean was here—he was safe. Nothing would be able to hurt him with his big brother around. Then, gradually, content shifted to panic when his brother wrapped his arms under Sam's armpits, dragging him out of the dark trunk of the car in a manner that was all-too unlike Dean's careful, sincere fashion.

Once he was fully out, Not-Dean threw him to the ground harshly. Dust and dirt welled up from the impact, invading his eyes and mouth which only provoked another fit of coughing. Small pebbles dug into his sides, only intensifying the discomfort in his abdomen. It was then he realized he was on a gravel road.

His surroundings revealed themselves slowly as his hazey eyes drifted in and out of focus. From the looks of it, he was surrounded by tall, lean trees on three sides of him, the fourth being disrupted by a raging river. White, foamy water roared and thundered while hitting various rocks placed meticulously in the center, splitting the current in two ways as it broke. The torrent was at least twenty feet wide, and ran as far as Sam's misty eyes could see. The gravel road stretched to the center of the clearing, cornered by long prairie grass, and according to Sam, that's where he must've been. The other end of the path went back in through the trees, no doubt leading to a back road which would eventually run into the interstate.

The shifter closed the trunk of the midnight black jeep with a loud bang, earning an unwilling flinch from the young hunter on the ground. His muscles too tired to protest, Sam let Not-Dean lug his huge frame to the bank of the river, careful not to make any sudden movements in case the shapeshifter accidentally lost control and released him.

Just then, Sam felt a cool metal brush against his neck. He instantaneously recognized it as his switchblade—the same one he was cut with earlier. The serrated edges made his skin itch, but he resisted the urge to move. Of course, formally he was shot with his own handgun, and now he may die at the edge of his very own blade.

Time meant nothing to Sam now. Seconds could have passed, or, hell, even an hour or two could have gone by. Nevertheless, it was all the same to him. Only when the shifter tensed did Sam. A sharp snap of a twig sounded amongst the silence, and he knew who it was in an instant. He didn't blame his brother, it was hard to scope out a forest without making any sound, but part of him wished that he'd been more careful for his own safety.

The shifter snorted. "Come on, Dean, I really don't have time for these games. I sincerely doubt Sam does too." Oh, and if that got both the brothers' attention. Sam knew he was dying, but he could only imagine how Dean felt. Since he had been scoping out the area for the past few minutes at most, he had to have caught a glimpse of his brother. Sam guessed he looked horrific in appearance.

Sam caught movement to his right, and gingerly turned to face it. The knife scratched his skin, but didn't break it. Out of the brush, like a hero in a movie, stood his brother; glock raised and packed with silver bullets. Sam started to sigh in relief, but didn't complete the action when he remembered his gutshot.

"Well, looks like we're at a bit of an impasse," Dean stated matter-of-factly.

"Drop the weapon," the shifter snarled in return to the introduction.

Dean glared. "Well, that's no way to greet yourself."

"I won't ask again."

With that, the elder hunter's entire demeanor changed and he lowered the gun to the ground. "Okay," he tried cautiously, "let's just talk about this."

The shifter looked like he wanted to laugh, as though the whole situation was simply ironic. Sam couldn't find the irony anywhere, no matter how hard he searched.

"What's there to talk about?" it asked.

Dean stayed silent as he raised his hands and took a few steps forward. Suddenly, a glint in the sunlight on metal blinded Sam. It disappeared as quick as it came, and he realized that a second gun—a colt, by the looks of it—was protruding from the back of Dean's pants, Winchester style. Not-Dean didn't seem to notice it, but Sam understood his brother's plan without hesitation.

Dean took a second to look at Sam straight in the eye, silently communicating, and Sam read the intention flawlessly. When he was about ten feet away, Dean stopped with his hands still raised and waited for the next order to be given to him.

As expected, it came when the shifter told him to get to his knees. Dean proceeded, and just when his jeans were about to touch the gravel, he whipped his hand to the back of his denim, pulled his gun out, switched off the safety, and fired all in less than a second. At the same time, Sam maneuvered with the skill of a professional and shifted his position back ever so slightly, then using his feeble arms to elbow the shifter in the gut. It recoiled, and he instantly rolled out of the way to the right and back out of the line of fire. That too happened in less than a second.

Sam was relieved for a brief instant, satisfied he was now safe, but the next thing he felt was his footing catch on a raised mound of dirt and he was tumbling into the water.

The river was cold. No, not cold, numbing. The icy water shocked him—how could a river like this be so freezing? But at this point, he guessed, it didn't actually matter anymore. Maybe this was how it was supposed to go down. Of course he had just happened to trip. One of the main rules their father taught him: watch your six. Don't let your guard down, and _always_ be aware of your surroundings. A simple practice that had been drilled into his head since he was barely seven years old, a practice that could very well save his life, and he had forgotten it.

Well, he couldn't say he'd forgotten it, he'd just been preoccupied with everything else that was going on. And now he was paying the unfortunately deadly price. He could just barely make out the white, puffy clouds above him through the raging rapids, and he felt like he could reach them with his hands. If only he could…

They were so close, those clouds. He tried to lift his arm, but it was fruitless in attempting so. The current was only dragging him deeper into the water...and deeper...and even deeper. Was it possible this was just how it was meant to be? Sam had stopped believing in God and his angels a long time ago when he actually did meet the soldiers of Heaven. That's all they were—soldiers. The armies of God despised him for his impurity, and that brought a whole new amount of unwanted memories to him. The demon blood, releasing Lucifer, losing his soul, not searching for Dean in Purgatory, setting free the Darkness. Gosh, he'd messed up so bad.

Maybe he did deserve what was happening to him now.

However, the next memory that was stirred up in all the commotion reversed that thinking in an instant. Dean. How was he going to feel when his little brother was dead? Part of him wanted to believe what his sibling had said previously was completely true, and that he really wouldn't sacrifice himself for Sam. Hell, maybe it was true. He may never know. But on the other hand, if this part of himself was right then Dean may not be far behind him. And not by a supernatural cause either.

He couldn't stand that thought. He _wouldn't_ stand that thought. And so he fought. He fought hard, kicking his legs and ignoring the blinding pain in his chest from the lack of oxygen. He needed to get to his brother. Dean needed to know that he was alright, and he wasn't going anywhere. There was no way he would leave his brother behind, even if Dean didn't feel the same way towards him.

And that's when he broke the surface.

He felt the sun; the heat that warmed his face while the water beneath him froze the rest of his fragile body. He saw the blinding light of the blue sky mix with the white foam of the river that longed to envelop him whole. He _tasted_ the oxygen on his tongue as it moved down his throat, filling his lungs with the much needed air. The pain of breathing due to his wound was long past recollection as he focused solely on gulping in deep mouthfuls.

And just like that, it was gone. He was back under the surface. This time, no matter how much he willed to fight, he physically couldn't. He was exhausted, completely spent. And so he let the harsh riptide toss him about the water. He couldn't seem to decide which way was up, down, left, or right, but _now_ he was sure it didn't matter. He was going to die here, without making it up to Dean. After all he'd been through, Sam at least had wished he would die nobly beside his brother in battle—blaze and glory.

Less of a blaze, more of a ocean. And alone. He was going to die alone.

This was it, he determined, and let his body fall lax. The water tossed him around like a ragdoll, and he felt himself slamming into rocks that for sure was making new and bright cuts. Minutes passed, and the last of his oxygen was almost gone. Then, he rammed into another huge boulder, stomach first. He screamed in agony, soon realizing his costly mistake as the water filled his mouth and lungs.

Choking, fireworks flashed before his eyes and he grew lightheaded. He knew he was at the end of his rope, and he was only reaping what he had sown.

 _Goodbye, Dean._

* * *

As soon as Dean saw his little brother go stumbling into the huge river that looked to be the width of nearly twenty feet, he knew he had screwed up. The shifter was dead, and he was aware of that much for sure. Its body lay sprawled out across the heightly grass, eyes closed, silver bullet piercing its heart. However, unlike a typical hunt where Dean would gloat and celebrate, his mind was overwhelmed with a fierce panic.

Struggling, he took off his jacket and sprinted over to the water's edge, mind racing. He scanned the rapids briefly, hoping to see some form of his brother, but there was none. Just the crashing waves that overlapped each other in a wild frenzy. Seconds passed, and he began to think the worst of the situation. The last words he had said to his brother was that he wouldn't die for him, essentially violating his trust and breaking their brotherhood. He saw the flash of hurt that had crossed Sam's eyes, despite the deceptive mask he had placed. When had his brother gotten so good at hiding his true feelings?

By now, the current would have carried Sam down a couple yards Dean figured, so he quickly ran back to the Impala, grabbed a spare rope they kept in the trunk, and charged though the open plains that soon morphed into woods. He followed the bank, still keeping an alert eye on the water. He knew that if he were to jump in, he would get caught in the current also and be of no use to his brother.

He continued to bolt down the miniature beach, and as the minutes continued to pass he feared Sam's survival chances were depleting...fast. Suddenly, a brief streak of red popped up in the middle of the white water. His heart rate sped up, and his breathing came in short, hitched breaths. He waited...waited...and there it was again. A little head sticking out of the water, gasping for air before it was soon snatched back down.

All rules of the game were overturned when Dean flipped the board, swiftly tying a knot to a nearby tree and around himself. He also took his phone out of his back pocket, just in case. He dove in the water, instantly feeling the extreme cold that made him feel like he was stuck in the snow without a sweater during the winter of Michigan.

The current brutally tugged him along and he slammed into a rather large boulder, knocking the wind out of him. But it was all worth it, because he was almost there—he could see a limp form drifting in the blue surrounding, and in his gut he knew who it was.

The only thing Dean thought as he swam towards his Sammy wasn't how he was almost out of breath, or how if he messed up neither of them would get out alive. It wasn't about how he may already be too late, and how Sam could already gone. It was that he _would_ get Sam out of this, and they would both return to the bunker laughing and teasing each other with lame jokes and witty remarks. It was about the good times he had with his brother, and how there would be many, many more to follow because Dean would make sure nothing would prevent them from being seperated by the veil.

He finally reached the flaccid form and wrapped his arms carefully around its upper waist, thinking back to the gunshot he had seen earlier that had made him want to puke. When they got out of this, Dean made sure that he was going to torch the sucker who had done this to his little brother.

Just then, an abrupt pull on the rope yanked Dean to a stop, subsequently Sam. It had reached the end, and now Dean really prayed that he had been in his right mind to tie a proper knot.

He kicked fiercly. Adrenaline and momentum were the only things keeping him going, and when those finally wore out they would be in some serious trouble. When he managed to break the surface, he focused on getting Sam's head above the river more than his own. He pumped his legs as fast as they would go sideways, and he realized he was making progress when he could finally stand on the sandy bottom.

Now was not the time to be relieved, though, because they were not out of the woods yet. He carried Sam on his chest and placed one foot after the other, wary to not slip. Part of him hadn't even noticed he had reached the shore due to the overwhelming terror that held him captive.

Slowly but surely, he hauled Sam up to the sand and laid him on his back. With shaky hands he undid his own rope, before focusing on his brother. He quickly felt for a pulse, and his heart literally dropped into his stomach when the normal, vibrant fluttering of a heartbeat was missing. Thinking quickly, he rolled Sam onto his back and tilted his chin back.

Crossing his hands in standard CPR format, he began counting compressions.

 _Twenty-seven, twenty-eight, twenty-nine, thirty…_

He rapidly bent down, administering two rescue breaths, and then resumed again. He repeated that process at least four times, and with each lap his faith began to dwindle more and more. It was strange how peaceful his young brother looked, his eyes closed as though he were merely sleeping. Dean didn't know when Sam had lost his bright, dimpled smile, or when the look of a worn hunter had overtaken his features, but he assumed it was no time close to now; and he hadn't even realized it. His brother had been suffering silently and all he did was throw lethal words back in his face with the intent to harm. How would Sam ever forgive him? How would _he_ ever forgive him?

One time, Dean recalled, he and Sam were at Bobby's place and he had taken them down to the small park a ways along the road. They had been having such an amazing time, pretending like they were the champions of the universe. Nothing could stop them. They were invincible. In his mighty glory, Sam had climbed on top of one of the tall towers that looked like a castle, standing and boasting his fearsome ways to all who would listen. Dean played along, having the time of his life, until he saw Sam's footing slip.

Time seemed to stand still as his little brother plunged to the cement ground beneath him, and the sickening crack that sounded as his head collided with the floor made Dean want to drop everything and run. He did run, but not away; he ran to his fallen sibling. At the time, Dean hadn't really understood concussions, so he did the only thing he could and ran to Bobby. Turns out, Sam was only unconscious, and nothing major had happened. However, after that incident, Dean had always felt the need to protect Sam from everyone and everything. He would never let anything bad happen to him.

And now, he had failed. Sam was dying in front of his very eyes and there was virtually nothing he could do to stop it. It was Cold Oak all over again, and that was something he had hoped to never live through for a second time.

Then suddenly, Sam gasped.

He breathed.

He was alive.

"That's it, that's it," Dean soothed as he flipped Sam onto his side as he coughed up all the water he had swallowed. "That's it. Just breathe little brother, just breathe. I got you. I'm not going to let anything happen to you."

"De'?" Sam stuttered.

"Yeah, I'm here. I'm here. I'm not going to leave you."

"G-Gunshot," his brother managed.

"I know, I know," Dean rambled, at a loss for what he should do. He would never admit it, especially not to Sam, but he was completely terrified right now; horror and fret was overtaking all of his senses and survival instincts. He knew he had to get Sam to the hospital, especially since calling an ambulance would raise suspicion about the cadaver near the riverbed.

So, he did the only thing he could think of right now. He wrapped his arms underneath Sam's body, and picked him up bridal-style. He stumbled under the dead weight, almost dropping his brother, but he regained his footing in an instant. He could feel Sam shivering under his protective hold, so he tightened it in an attempt to give as much warmth as humanly possible.

When he finally got to the black, glistening Impala, it was probably the best scene he could ever imagine seeing. It just sat there innocently, bathing in bright sunlight that illuminated its frame with a beautiful glint. Had he not been carrying his almost-dead younger sibling, he may have marveled at the sight.

Instead, he speedily opened the back door and lowered his brother down carefully onto the leather seats. Blood from the reopened wound seeped out onto the floor and bench, but Dean couldn't find himself giving a crap about the upholstery at the moment. Not when his precious brother was slowly dying before his very eyes. He closed the door sharply after making sure his brother was secure, and then sprinted to grab his phone—he may need it.

When he finally got back into the driver's seat, Dean turned around to find Sam with his eyes closed. His heart nearly skipped a beat before he noticed the gradual rise and fall of the limp form's chest.

"Hey, Sam?" he tried.

"Hmm…" Sam trailed off, eyes still shut.

"I need you to stay awake for me, okay? Keep those eyes open, let me see them."

Visibly relaxing at Dean's words, Sam released a deep breath and did as he was told, opening his hazel eyes to slight slits. "Good," praised Dean, "now you just keep it like that, alright? No going to sleep or checking out early, princess."

"'M j'st so tired, De'," Sam stated.

"I know, I know, but you can't go to sleep, okay?" Without waiting for a response, Dean started the engine and slammed on the gas. The car sped away, and within thirty seconds he was on the interstate to the nearest hospital while going nearly 30 over the limit. Terrifying thoughts ran through his mind as he raced through the streets, and only five minutes had passed before he was at the entrance of the ER. He jerked the car to a stop in the center of the lot, and sprinted around to the backseat.

"Sam, can you hear me?" he asked frantically as he dragged his brother into his arms. He didn't care if his favorite shirt and jeans were getting stained with the blood of his fallen sibling, in fact he didn't care much about anything other than Sammy at this point. There was no response.

He burst through the entrance, and found himself screaming for help. Multiple nurses came running to him, and at the corner of his eye he could just make out other visitors backing away in fear at the gruesome sight. He guessed he did look pretty awful, drenched in sweat, grime, and blood.

A gurney was pushed in front of him, but he didn't let go of his brother. He'd be damned before he let Sam out of his sight again, especially now when he was unconscious and scarcely alive.

"Sir, I need you to give him to me!" one petite brunette cried, clearly trying to get through to him. "We can help him, but you have to let go!"

Various options about what he could do fled through his brain, and he knew he couldn't hold Sam forever. Reluctantly, he loosened his grip on Sam and the doctors heaved him onto the stretcher. An IV was instantly hooked up, and the moveable bed started off as the frantic doctors rolled it down a particularly crowded corridor. Dean ran beside it, refusing to release the hold he had on his brother's slack hand.

"BP is 60/45 mmHg, hypovolemic shock and extreme hypotension beginning to set in," a male doctor in his thirties shouted out along with Sam's other vitals. "We need to get him stabilized _now_!"

A female doctor suddenly walked up to him, shooting all sorts of questions about if Sam was allergic to any medication and what had happened. He answered all the questions despondently, not really paying attention to what he was actually saying as he replied. He remembered spouting some whole spiel of a lie about what had occurred, but what he truly said was a loss to him. All that mattered to him was Sam.

Only when the stretcher was pushed behind one of those swinging doors that seem to appear in various television shows was he held back, but he didn't go down without a fight. He almost punched one of the nurses in the face, and it took about six people to restrain him from following Sam into the back room no doubt made for surgery prep.

"Sam!" he shouted, trying to break free from the restraining hands on his arms and shoulders.

"Sir, you need to calm down!" one of the girls yelled. "You need to let the surgeons do their work! If you go in there, you could very well kill him!"

That got through to him. Gradually—but unwillingly—he stopped struggling and allowed himself to be directed to a private waiting room.

* * *

Three hours.

Three damn hours he waited, no information, no nothing to tell him if Sam was even alive.

No, scratch that, it was more like twenty hours in which he was lost, pacing the room, before a scrawny doctor came in through the door.

"Sam Hartford?" he asked cautiously. Dean realized the alias in an instant and walked over. "Who are you?"

Vexed, Dean answered, "I'm Sam's brother." After a moment of silence, he asked the next dreaded question, "Is he okay? Is he alive?"

The doctor hesitated slightly before answering, concerning Dean. "Yes, your brother is alive, but I need to talk to you about some stuff if that's alright." Dean only glared, so the doctor quickly continued. "As soon as you brought your brother in, we prepared him for emergency surgery immediately. I'm not sure if you were aware in all the chaos but the bullet was still lodged in his lower abdomen, meaning there was no exit wound and we had to get it out. He coded twice on the table."

Dean let the words sink in, but they never really did. His brother was dead? No, that couldn't be...they were just talking less than a day ago, eating cheap take-out and watching a movie or two, just like they would when they were kids. Sam wasn't dead, he couldn't have died, right?

The doctor seemed to notice Dean visibly paling, staring blank faced at something behind him, and he hurriedly carried on. "Sir, we were able to bring him back."

This time, the words did sink in. His brother had died. Twice. His heart had stopped two times. But he was alive now. He was breathing, and he was alive. Dean let out a huge breath he didn't know he had been holding.

"That doesn't mean he is out of the woods yet, however. Sam lost a good 43% of his total blood, and that's deadly in some cases. We gave him a transfusion while he was under to try and stabilize both his oxygen levels and blood pressure, and it seemed to have helped some." The doctor smiled in reassurance.

"Now, I'm assuming he was also drowned, since the marks that were left are often seen by people who have been performed cardiopulmonary resuscitation on. You're probably wondering about other complications that could happen, such as potential brain damage and pneumonia." Dean nodded blankly. "I'm happy to say that I don't think either of those will be an issue. Sam, for the most part, is doing well, and showing no signs of decreased brain activity or possible pneumonia. On the other hand, though, there is one thing that we need to keep a close eye on.

"Sam, unfortunately, has developed ARDS, also known as Acute Respiratory Distress Syndrome. This is in fact from the drowning, and right now we are having him on a ventilator to help him breathe. It's not too severe, and I am optimistic that he will recover.

"Other than that, we only found two long lacerations on his right forearm that have both been dressed and stitched, as well as a mild concussion from blunt force trauma to the head. Overall, he should heal just fine. It's a lot worse than it looks, and you got him here just in time, really. Whoever performed the CPR saved his life, and without it he would most likely not be here right now. We're going to transfer him to ICU in a few minutes, and you can see him then."

It took Dean a moment to fully process the words that were just spoken to him, and when they did finally strike home, he was more than relieved. His brother was going to be okay...he was going to survive. He had saved Sam's life. They...they were going to be just fine.

* * *

When Sam finally woke up, the first thing he took note of was the smell. After all, he couldn't really see right now since his eyes refused to obey their orders and open. The scent of sterile and cleanliness assaulted him, and he knew exactly where he was. Who wouldn't? Now that he thought about it and concentrated a little more, he could also make out the sound of a faint beeping. The good ol' lovely hospital.

He felt an itch on his nose and moved to scratch at it, when a voice suddenly said, "I wouldn't do that if I were you."

"D'n?" Sam asked hopefully, though he already knew the answer. Straining, he managed to open his eyes slightly. Everything was bright. Like, really bright. The walls, the ceiling, the floor. He resisted the urge to shut them again, and instead looked at the tall, but hunched over figure sitting in a not-so-comfortable plastic hospital chair, ignoring the scratch in his nose he figured was a nasal cannula.

"Who else, bitch?" he laughed humorlessly. "You know, I thought I told you to specifically not go drown yourself in any rivers and get yourself shot, making me have to drag your unconscious ass to the hospital in which you took a nap for three straight days. I guess I forgot."

Sam blinked. "I'm sorry," he said after a moment.

Dean straightened his posture, looking confused for a moment. "For what?" he asked. "There's nothing to be sorry for, Sammy."

Sam smiled and closed his eyes. "Sammy," he repeated wistfully. "You haven't called me that in forever."

Dean suddenly knew what this was all about. "Hey," he said sternly. "Look at me." Sam didn't look at him. "I said, look at me."

This time, Sam opened his eyes and gazed at him. The look of hurt sent waves of pain through Dean, and he once again wondered when things had gotten this bad between them. "This was not your fault, you hear me Sammy? You had no control over the events that happened. And what I said earlier? Come on, Sam, you had to know I was lying."

The expression on Sam's face told him all that he needed to know.

His words had struck Sam so harshly, that he had lost the feeling of being brothers to his own voice. "Oh Sam…" Dean trailed off. "I'm going to make this right. You hear me? I'm going to fix this for us."

Sam looked at him, caught off guard. "It's not broken, Dean."

Silence ensued then, and Sam looked at him with those damned puppy eyes.

Dean broke the quiet, saying softly, "No, it's not." He looked up. "It's shattered."

And so when Sam fell back asleep, Dean knew everything wasn't going to be okay. Family isn't important. It's everything. The strength of a family, like the strength of an army, lies in its loyalty to one another. And Dean had used that to his advantage, fracturing the thin barrier holding him and his brother together.

One day, maybe they would get past the bridge that was no longer connecting them. But it would take time.

And they had work to do.


End file.
